


A Hand on The Shoulder

by MirrorandImage



Series: Ghost Drabbles [8]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: Rebels
Genre: Five Stages of Grief, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-30
Updated: 2016-08-20
Packaged: 2020-06-02 23:31:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19451740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MirrorandImage/pseuds/MirrorandImage
Summary: The crew of the Ghost mourns the injury of one of their own via the five stages of grief. Season 2 finale coping fic.





	1. Denial

A hand on the shoulder.

Ezra had never thought about how much one gesture meant. How much it defined his relationship with one person. Or how much could be conveyed by such a simple thing.

Kanan, his master, a Jedi of the ancient religion, a cowboy, a brilliant strategist, a firm but kind teacher... Kanan always put his hand on Ezra's shoulder. It had become a familiar weight, a reassurance.

A hand on his shoulder was support. A soothing squeeze. _You can do this._ A call for patience. _Hold on a second._ A guidance. _Take a moment. Breathe._ A reminder. So many things in the past two years.

When Kanan had been held by Tarkin and the Inquisitor, Ezra had realized how much he _missed_ that hand on the shoulder. How much it was just a part of the life he had chosen. Had grown into. It was a connection. The old Ezra was self-centered and closed off. But that hand on the shoulder was a symbol. He never dared let anyone touch him when he was just a lothrat. That was rule number one for safety. For survival.

Joining the _Ghost_ had changed that. There was roughhousing with Zeb and Chopper, trying to get close to Sabine, working with everyone on repairs and maintenance, Hera leaning over him to check his work. And Kanan teaching him to connect. To give. To _live_ again. Hugging him when he lost his parents, moving his arms and legs just so to get a stance right and his _presence_. The Force, once Ezra was aware of it, had connection on a whole different level.

Through all of it, as Ezra opened up in a way he hadn't for years, as he relearned empathy and compassion, generosity and courage, Kanan's hand was on his shoulder.

That harried and tumultuous time when Kanan had been in the hands of the Empire had left Ezra's shoulders cold. Too light. Lacking.

And then Kanan was back. Ezra unconsciously vowed that he would never take that hand on the shoulder for granted again.

But now...

Now...

Now a hand on the shoulder was something else.

A hand on the shoulder was being a guide for a blind man.

Because Kanan was now blind. Sight burned away with instant cauterization of a lightsaber. A _Sith's_ lightsaber. Maul.

Kanan's hand was on more than Ezra's shoulder. Hera would often guide him, or Chopper. Zeb was too tall, so a hand on the elbow. Kanan used a hand on the wall as a guide. Kanan, strong, fierce, frustrating Kanan, stumbled. Tripped. Needed things read to him. Asked for descriptions of pictures.

Ezra's heart clenched tightly, feelings roiling and raging and uncontrollable.

A hand was on the shoulder.

And it was so _wrong_.

There was still a question on what the medics could do. Cybernetics, false eyes, sensors. But Kanan needed more time to heal before any sort of procedure could be considered, let alone implemented. Bacta could save the eyes, but not the _sight_ , more tests needed to be done, ocular nerve damage, words that held no meaning, and milky white, and stumbles. So for now, Kanan needed help.

Ezra was torn. One the one hand, he couldn't _stand_ to see Kanan like this. It was like cutting out his own eyes, his master wasn't supposed to need help like this! He was strong, wise, unbeatable! And now he was weak, pained... And this was permanent, unlike that time under Tarkin and the Grand Inquisitor. Ezra didn't want to see this, didn't want to be a part of it, he wanted to deny it! It couldn't exist! It _shouldn't_ exist! If he ignored it, maybe things could go back to the way they were.

Maybe he could go back and never speak to Maul.

Never touch the Sith holocron that was in his bunk.

Because Ezra stubbornly helped Kanan as much as he could because this was _all his fault_. He had listened to Maul, stood up for Maul, _followed_ Maul. He had seen Maul as someone like him, someone hurt by the Empire. And maybe that was true, maybe they _did_ have something in common, but Ezra would _never_ hurt Kanan. And Maul _had_. And he would _pay_ , just like the Empire would _pay_. Because this was all his fault, he would help Kanan.

… How could he not?

Kanan's hand was on his shoulder and Ezra was guiding him through the markets. They were looking for supplies and Kanan had insisted on going, saying he needed to adjust to being around others and out on runs.

Ezra didn't know how Kanan could ever go out on an op again.

Ezra had a steady stream of descriptions going. "Junk shop on the left, focused on actuators, I think. Different junk shop on the right, with actual junk. There's too much scoring to tell what he's even selling. Now there's an actual parts shop on the left, droid focused, and a competitor right across. End of this street is a..." Kanan didn't say much, or even acknowledge what Ezra was saying, but Ezra had the sense that he was entirely focused all the same.

The jostling crowd wasn't helping. Most people, the ones actually moving and watching where they were going, quietly stepped out of the way as Ezra guided Kanan through the street. But with the shops and the barkers shouting out deals and people crowded around to look at wares or argue pricing, it was still difficult to walk down the street. Ezra needed to shift direction to avoid crowds, softly telling Kanan everything, from where the crowds were, why they were changing direction, just keep helping Ezra, because this was all your fault.

Ezra didn't want to be there. Not like this. It wasn't supposed to _be_ like this.

Smacking his lips, thirsty from so much talking, Ezra turned down another street. "This street looks like it might have the parts Hera wanted. Definitely more ship focused than junk focused. On the left..."

But in the middle of the sidewalk, Kanan stopped and squeezed Ezra's shoulder.

Ezra stopped and fought down the knot curling up in his throat and the sting in his eyes. A squeeze meant something _else_. Not a cue to stop.

A hand on the shoulder meant something _else_.

"Ezra," Kanan said softly, his head tilting to some sound that Ezra didn't know. "We need to stop. Take a break. You're thirsty, we need to go to a restaurant. Don't worry about describing anything else, just get us to a cafe where we can eat."

The stinging in his eyes was sharper.

For all that Ezra helped Kanan as much as he could, he had only ever shared a meal with Kanan once after returning from Malachor. The two day shuttle ride home was its own form of hell, but they'd had ration bars to eat. Just hand one to Kanan and Kanan could figure out how to eat it. But the first meal they'd had back at their new base, one that had been cooked and prepared and smelled delicious. Ezra had sat down with the rest of the _Ghost_ 's crew, including Kanan, looking forward to relaxing as long as he didn't actually _look_ at Kanan. The Jedi had been laughing and joking as normal, and conversation had started and it had sounded normal. Ezra had been able to pretend that Kanan wasn't blind and that maybe things wouldn't be so different.

Then Kanan had reached for his drink and knocked it down. He felt for his food and got it all over the table. Zeb had to cut things up for him.

Ezra couldn't share another meal with Kanan after that.

And now he was suggesting going out to eat.

The lumpy knot in his throat doubled in size.

And Kanan was doing this _because Ezra was thirsty_.

 _Kanan_ was the one struggling and having difficulty, but he was looking out for his _Padawan_ first.

Ezra breathed in sharply through his nose and swallowed the knot. Then swallowed it again.

"Whatever you need, Kanan."

Ezra desperately wanted to get this over with. Rush through the meal and avoid watching Kanan struggle through finding utensils or finding food or not making a mess. Kanan had always been such a neat eater, a good cook, said it was part of what he'd learned at the Temple... how to survive, find food and make it palatable. And Kanan couldn't do that anymore. So yes, Ezra desperately, _desperately_ wanted to rush.

But that wouldn't help Kanan. At all. So Ezra took a breath and kept describing as he weaved his way past fast-food servers or speeder trucks designed for quickly passing out food. Places that would be cheap to their credits. Instead he went to a family dining place, still affordable, but definitely a better quality of food. It would give Kanan a chance to sit down and relax. A treat.

Ezra didn't want to be here.

The host of the restaurant looked at them, a scruffy pair with Kanan clearly having just been injured and adjusting. Pity surged in the host and Ezra winced. He didn't want to be here. Not like _this_. The hand on the shoulder squeezed. The reassuring squeeze that meant so much, Ezra's eyes stung and the world got a little blurry.

The host took them to a booth and Ezra guided Kanan to one side of it, then sat across. The hand wasn't on his shoulder and Ezra was equal parts grateful and desperate to get it back. The waiter came with water and menus, quietly explaining to Kanan and guiding his hand to a button that would make the menu speak the list, and settings for the language.

Ezra gratefully drank the water for his parched throat, and didn't watch as Kanan took his own sip. His master sat back with a heavy sigh and Ezra watched Kanan reach up to rub the bridge of his nose, like he always did, then pause millimeters away, then reach up to rub his forehead.

His heart clenched tighter and the knot in his throat surged up.

"Ezra, this isn't working."

That just made everything hurt even more.

"I know," he mumbled, appetite gone.

Kanan actually chuckled. "I don't think you do," he said lightly, smile in his voice and on his face if Ezra dared to look. (He didn't.) "Your eyes can deceive you. Don't trust them."

Ezra blinked. That sounded like Kanan was quoting someone.

"We were trained since we were brought to the Temple to trust the Force, not our eyes. I've fought blind when I could barely walk. It was a common training technique. Before all this I was thinking of starting that with you."

Ezra looked up, surprised. And a little disbelieving. "If you can fight blind, then why are you-" he bit back the accusation, bit back how much he hated the situation, he bit back everything.

With frightening accuracy, Kanan reached out and squeezed his hand. "It's okay, Ezra. I'm not how I was, but I'm okay."

" _No_ , you're _not_ ," Ezra hissed back. "Kanan, you're really not." He pulled his hand back. He didn't want comfort. Because as much as he _hated_ this, as much as he _didn't_ want to be here, like this, he hated himself more, because this was all his fault.

"Ezra-" but the waiter had arrived to take their order.

Once the waiter was gone, Ezra slumped forward, burying his head in his arms and just wanting the world to go away for just a few moments. Just so he could pretend to forget that everything had changed. Changed for the worse. Changed like when he'd lost his parents. Change just couldn't be a good thing. Except change brought him the _Ghost_ , expanded his world view beyond himself, reminded him of what his parents had done...

And now he wondered if maybe it was better to have been ignorant. To not know what he was, to have not met the crew and be adopted into their family. Because this, this moment, this never-ending moment in time, was pure _agony_.

A hand on the shoulder. One he craved and cringed from.

"Sensing people is easy," Kanan said softly. "Sparring blind, you get to know where others are so you don't trip into them, to say nothing for your opponent. But things, objects are harder. I know danger, a blaster bolt thrown at me, an avalanche, those are ripples. Missing that is like forgetting how to drive a speeder. I've never had to sense obstacles around me like this. It's taking more experimentation than I like to find a method that works and doesn't drain me."

Okay, so that made sense. And Ezra felt worse for having thought so negatively of Kanan when his master was so painfully honest all the time. Ezra buried his head further into his arms.

"Ezra, when I said this wasn't working, I-"

The waiter arrived and Ezra had no choice but to lift his head so the food could be put on the table and pull his shoulder away from the hand. The food was steaming and smelled delicious and Ezra's stomach churned. He sipped his water instead, and stared at the plate. Block out the sounds of Kanan reaching and fumbling for utensils.

Kanan was struggling.

Holding back a growl, Ezra looked up and started describing the plate, what was where, and reached out to guide Kanan's hand. Fingers curled around Ezra's wrist, pausing him. "Ezra. I wanted to say-"

"You need to eat, Kanan," Ezra interrupted him. "The medics are still worried about infection and you've been pushing yourself. You haven't been getting enough rest."

Neither had Ezra, for that matter. Nightmares were nasty. For both of them. And Ezra _knew_ Kanan was having trouble getting to sleep with all that sensitivity right around his scarred eyes.

Kanan opened his mouth to say something, but Ezra pulled away and worked on eating his own meal. Subject closed.

With a tired sigh that ripped open yet another hole in Ezra's heart, Kanan focused on the food as well.

Meals weren't supposed to be silent. They were silent for those seven years when he was just a Lothrat. That heavy thick silence of emptiness. Meals with the _Ghost_ were lively, energetic and _loud_. Bickering, laughing, chatting.

It wasn't supposed to _be_ like this and Ezra didn't want to _be_ here facing it. Swallowing his food was difficult with the chunky knot that was almost permanently lodged in his throat, and his eyes were still stinging. The silence was so oppressive, but Ezra didn't dare say a word. He just couldn't.

He _couldn't_.

Yet somehow, he was able to clear his plate. Get another glass of water and drink all of it. Even had an iced dessert that did a lot to take away the sting and cool off his warming cheeks.

Then the waiter came, and Kanan pulled out the credits, running his fingers over them to try and read the denominations and Ezra had to reach over and correct the amount left on the table. Standing and helping Kanan stand, a hand was on the shoulder again, this time leading his master out of the restaurant. With a deep breath, Ezra ignored his stinging eyes, hot cheeks, and lumpy, knotted throat, in order to start describing again.

Force, he wanted this afternoon _over_.

He wanted to hide in his bunk, find a datapad, _something_ to distract himself and forget this and just avoid the world. He wanted to be back on Lothal and _ignorant_. He wanted to be back on Malachor and tell Maul to _stuff it_. He wanted to be back on Atollan and the rebel base before they had even left and decide to not go.

He wanted so much, and _none_ of it was _this_.

"I think we'll cut through an alley," he said mechanically, steadfastly ignoring the knot in his throat. "Less crowds and it will get us back to that street with ship-focused parts faster. On the left-"

They were halfway through the dark alley, sunlight streaming in from the other side as the planet kept rotating through this never ending afternoon, the warm rays just a few steps away.

A hand on the shoulder. It squeezed. And Ezra automatically stopped. Another hand on another shoulder. Ezra's eyebrows tensed and squeezed and the world was blurry and he couldn't talk and his cheeks were burning but he kept swallowing it all down.

"This isn't working," Kanan said, using his blind hands to turn Ezra around. "Ezra, I've been calm and open for you. I've been letting you take this at your own pace, but it isn't working."

 _Kanan_ , Ezra wanted to say, but his throat was too clogged.

Hands on shoulders, gently pulling. Strong arms wrapped around him. A hand running through his hair. "Mourn, Ezra. Grieve. Let it out."

His eyes stinging eve more, his face buried in Kanan's sweater, Ezra gasped for breath, tried to swallow down a sob.

"Come on, kid. Cry."

Kid. Kanan just called him kid. Like he hadn't in a long time, calling back to those days when they were first getting to know each other, when they were both healthy and whole. And Ezra just couldn't hold back any more. A moaning wail escaped his throat as he wrapped his arms around Kanan and clutched at the back of his sweater, his cheeks burning with feeling, his brows pinched even tighter together, and tears pouring out both corners of his eyes as he just sobbed. His breath hitched, he couldn't catch enough air, he couldn't stop the tears.

It all came pouring out, all the guilt, all the fear, all the shame, all the frustration.

And Kanan just held him close like he always did.

And that just made it all _worse_ , because Ezra was supposed to be the support for _Kanan_ now. It was all backwards. But it was the way it was supposed to be, it was like it was, it was like it should be. And Ezra just cried.

"It's not _fair_!" he shouted, voice ragged and pained and knotted and hoarse. "It's not _fair_! It should have been _me_! I trusted him, I dragged us along, it should have been _me_!"

Arms hugged him closer and Ezra held on tighter, grasping at the green sweater that Kanan would never see again. Burying his face that Kanan would never see again. All because he had trusted.

His cheeks were burning and soaked. And Kanan just kept holding him tighter. Holding him together. But he wasn't together. He was falling to pieces and Kanan didn't _need_ that.

But Ezra just couldn't stop sobbing or crying or choking or clutching.

He cried.

He cried and he cried and he cried.

Encased in love he didn't deserve but craved so much.

And as the sobbing subsided, there was a hand on the shoulder.

Encased in love he didn't deserve but craved so much.

The tears didn't seem to stop. They just kept going and going and going.

And then, through his sobs, Ezra noted something.

The solid chest that he was wailing into, decrying everything into, was also heaving. Was also sobbing. Was also struggling for breath. Ezra, tears still flowing freely, throat still a tight knot, cheeks still burning, pulled back and looked. Kanan's bandage was damp, and tears were falling. Grief was surrounding them, and Ezra suddenly wondered if maybe Kanan was trying to be okay and wasn't. So Ezra pulled his hands back and then up around Kanan's neck and just held each other close. Because Ezra was lost, broken, in pieces that were being scattered across everything. And so was Kanan.

Kanan was at his side no matter what. Whether Ezra wanted him there or not.

So maybe, just maybe, just this once... they could cry together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic was, originally, going to go up much sooner. Everyone and their brother has written some kind of season 2 coping fic, and we were/are hardly any different. Losing a sense like sight is a huge deal, and the five stages of grief were not a stretch of imagination to apply, and Kanan isn't an island unto himself, everyone else is affected by this, too, and so we visit everyone else as they try cope (and we subsequently try to cope) with what's happened.
> 
> And then, a scant three months ago, our father passed away. It was very sudden.
> 
> For the first time in our lives the two of us are actually living the stages of grief, and for a long time we couldn't look at this fic without thinking about how it came out "Before" and we were afraid of what we would feel proofing it. Then, once the initial shock passed, there was physically no time, because the two of us have to handle his affairs (which are so terribly disorganized that we're still finding things scattered about the house) since our mother is in no state to. It wasn't until school ended that we even had time to catch up, and it wasn't until last week, after we posted Chopper's little vignette that we opened up the fic and risked reading it to see if we could post it. We could, and so we are.
> 
> To call the five stages of grief stages is a bit of a misnomer, because emotions aren't so rigid as to go step by step from one stage to the next. The two of us have bounced from one stage to the next and the next in as many hours let alone as many days or months, we skip around as the mood strikes us or as a memory hits us or as the latest crisis pushes us to make more decisions.
> 
> Denial is more than just not wanting something to happen - though for Ezra and his self-loathing and guilt that will be the strongest manifestation - it's also looking at the clock and wondering why Da hasn't come home from work yet. Or coming up the driveway and being confused at seeing his car when he should be doing food shopping. It's leaving in the morning and not seeing his silhouette waving us off and wishing us safe. Denial is slowly realizing the absence of a huge part of one's life is the sum total of a million little moments. For Ezra, he wants to undo everything that's happened, but he also is coming to understand that something as simple as a hand on the shoulder, something that has its own weight and context and symbolism is now something very, very, different, and he can't reconcile the changes.
> 
> We didn't want to go much further than that because this was (obviously) written before the season 3 teaser. We weren't even sure what Kanan's eyes would look like or if they would even be seen, so we kept the injury as vague as possible. Before posting this we added a few small hints here and there that more closely align with what we know will happen, but from here Ezra can start the season in the next stage of grief: anger. And we all know where that leads.


	2. Anger

A hand on the shoulder.

Kanan's hand was on Zeb's shoulder as they set down the _Phantom_. Hera was back on the _Ghost_ , tending to a broken Ezra and a distraught Sabine. The Mandelorean was supposed to come along but something happened that morning that made Hera decide firmly that she wasn't leaving the ship until they had some kind of girl to girl talk. Zeb didn't care one way or the other, and as he finished landing his only real thought was _stars above_ he wanted to smash some helmets.

"We set?" Kanan asked.

"Yeah," Zeb muttered, irritated. "Come on." The Lasat stood, the shuttle almost too small for him, and he put a hand to Kanan's back to steer him out of the ship.

Kanan stood for a moment in the open air, breathing in the atmosphere, listening to crowds as they moved about the port. "Are there clouds in the sky?" he asked suddenly. "I smell rain."

Zeb looked up at the green sky. "Don't see any."

Kanan shrugged. "I still smell rain."

Growling, Zeb couldn't find a response. "Doctor's somewhere on the other side of the port," he said instead. "Hera says he's good."

And _karabast,_ the man actually tried to smile. "Well, let's not keep her waiting." He held up a hand and Zeb offered an elbow, too tall for the little human to use his shoulder. The Lasat started lumbering forward, wanting this over with, but Kanan stumbled almost immediately, not expecting his brusque pace. He grunted and Zeb realized he had to make smaller steps, and that only irritated him more. He was so _angry_ , and all he wanted to do was _bust some helmets_. In fact... he saw a squad of stormtroopers, and a visceral smile pulled at his cheeks and he wondered how long it would take to embarrass the lot of them.

"Zeb, are we supposed to be listing to the side like this?"

_Karabast_. "Of course," the Lasat said quickly, trying to sound natural. "These crowds ain't nothing to sneeze at."

Zeb hated that Kanan had been reduced to this, to needing to be led from place to place. This was the man who had found him after the extermination of Lasan; the man who always had a plan even when things changed left, right, and center. Long before he was a Jedi – no, long before he allowed himself to be a Jedi – he was a brilliant field tactician. Zeb was captain of the Honor Guard, a military genius in his own right. He knew all the formations, all the strategies, all the orders. He'd worked from the squads all the way up, the rising star of the planet. But he _paled_ in comparison to Kanan's unrivaled creativity. Only Kanan could do something as crazy as stage a breakout at Stergeon Prime, or declamp the shuttle while in hyperspace, or use the shock value of a surviving Jedi to buy enough time for an escape. Only Kanan could get them to live through half the crazy things that happened to them.

And now he was bereft of his sight. His hands were out to feel for hazards, he wobbled on his feet as he tried to recover, steps were cautious instead of confident. He had been reduced to nothing. Kanan would never be able to do a field op again, he was _helpless_. Worse, Zeb had no one to be mad _at_. The Inquisitors were all dead, Maul-something was dead, and Vader was untouchable. He couldn't yell at Kanan, and he couldn't yell at Ezra, he couldn't do _anything_. He was impotent to what had happened – just as he was impotent to the death of his people. Only then, Kanan had found him. Now, Kanan couldn't save him again. He looked back at the squad of stormtroopers. His muscles rippled and bunched at the need for adrenaline.

"Not now, Zeb," Kanan said. "Get me to the medic first."

Zeb rolled his eyes before he wondered how Kanan had even knew he was thinking about embarrassing stormtroopers. He glanced but saw the white bandage still there. Kanan looked in Zeb's direction, frowning for a moment before nodding. "I can feel the tension," he said, wiggling his fingers in Zeb's elbow. "Your pace is slowing down, and you're listing to the side again. You're distracted."

"Fine..." Zeb muttered. "Medic first."

Zeb ignored the stormtroopers, or tried to, and crossed the spaceport, through the crowds to the markets and commerce centers beyond. Sounds bounced off the awnings and stalls, and Kanan shrank from the noise, his ears now his primary sense and his brain still shifting to the reliance.

The medic was down an alley, up a thoroughfare, and sandwiched narrowly between two buildings. The sign was in Basic and Huttese. The waiting room had two Sullustans and a male Twi'lek. The Twi'lek had opaque shades on his face, and one of the Sullustrans had clearly been in some kind of fire. The medic was obviously specialized, and knew her stuff. Zeb wondered how Hera knew about this guy before deciding it was probably some rebel contact.

He guided Kanan down to a chair and leaned against a wall. It took all of half a minute before he decided he hated waiting, and his foot started to tap. Kanan didn't say anything, which was actually unusual, the Jedi had a knack for finding the right words to keep Zeb focused. The Lasat looked over to see the human's knee was bouncing at high speed, arms crossed and hairy eye ridges over the bandage furrowed. Kanan was nervous about this – nervous what the doctor would say.

Zeb never wanted to hit something harder. He wished Sabine was here instead of talking to Hera about whatever, he needed someone to snap at, and Kanan couldn't be the target. But those stormtroopers... He shook his head. Kanan had to come first.

Someone came out to call the next patient, and there was a startled surprise of a language Zeb didn't know, but he did recognize one part. "Kanan Jarrus!"

The Jedi smiled, turning his head to the human who had stepped out. "Long time no see," he said, trying to make a joke but the stress in his voice was too obvious to hold it.

The human said more, Zeb realized it was Huttese. He knew a little, but not enough for the rapid fire conversation between the human and Kanan, who also spoke the language. The human eventually got back to work, called the burned Sullistan, and disappeared.

"That the doctor?" Zeb asked.

"No, the nurse. Hera and I were here before, after we first met on Gorse. Zaluna needed treatment after... well, after everything." Zeb ignored the sound of sudden intense empathy, and decidedly refused to ask more. He had a good picture of what that meant.

It was an hour before Kanan was taken, the Sullustan and the Twi'lek going first. Zeb was ready to commit a massacre; he was a Lasat of action, a military commander, he wasn't _built_ for waiting. Tapping his foot wasn't enough, he was pacing back and forth and back and forth. Kanan's knee had stopped bouncing, his face had evened out, he had the look of meditation. Zeb wondered if the Jedi was meditating, but the bandages made it hard to tell if his eyes were closed. Zeb imagined they must be, he couldn't imagine what it felt like to open his eyes through the lightsaber burns Ezra had described.

Another human came out, not the nurse. The female had bright red, almost orange hair cascading in curls to her chin. "Kanan," she said softly.

"Opallo," Kanan replied, standing and turning to face her. "It's been a while. I'm surprised you remember me."

"Almost ten years," she said, "and you and Hera were hard to forget. I'm surprised she's not here."

"She is," the Jedi said. "In the ship."

The doctor smiled, soft. "Let's see what's happened." She traced her hand along the Jedi's arm and taking his hand, lifting it and putting it on her shoulder. Kanan fell in step perfectly and Zeb followed suit, into halls too narrow for his large frame and into a tiny examination room. "Who's the body guard?" Opallo asked.

"Zeb," Kanan said, "introduce yourself." He felt around for the medic couch and sat on it, hands exploring the space.

"You already said my name," the Lasat countered. "What else is there?"

"I don't know, maybe saying you're part of the crew," Kanan said. "Explain how we've grown over the years?"

Zeb rolled his eyes and crossed his arms.

"Friendly," the doctor said in a deceptively light voice. Her hand touched Kanan's cheeks, a curiously intimate gesture. "I see the burns are very centralized. What made the injury? Blasters?"

"... All I saw was a red blade," Kanan said, voice much quieter now, lost in memory. "The last thing I saw was the red blade..."

Opallo stilled, looked at the blind Kanan, and Zeb saw the face of someone who had watched this many times over and was still affected by it. She pursed her lips, ran a hand through her orange curls, and exhaled through her nose. "Let's have a better look," she said gently. She reached up and took off the ear implements, and then took off the bandage. Zeb got a full view of the damage, the black and blistered skin, the red welts, the flaking skin, _the eyes_. He stared, horrified to see the damage that had happened on Malachor. This wasn't a temporary blindness, this wasn't something that could be fixed, this was the worst case scenario. Zeb was unable to look away, unable to pull his gaze from the damage. It was like looking at a space crash, in slow motion, horrifying and mesmerizing at the same time. He opened his mouth to say something, to break his line of sight of the ugliness. His eyes... his eyes...!

" _Zeb_ ," Kanan said, his voice rough. "A little _privacy_?"

Opallo looked up and quickly moved around the examination couch, putting a hand on Zeb's chest and putting pressure, pressing him out of the room before the door slid shut.

The damage was done, however. Zeb had seen the full scope of the tragedy, now understood that there was no bouncing back from this. Kanan was crippled for life, he would never be half of what he was.

… And there was still _so much in him._ That was the great cruelty. Kanan hadn't even started to hit his stride, hadn't even begun to make his mark on the galaxy. Zeb had heard the stories, been told by both Hera and Kanan himself about how hard the Jedi had fallen before pulling himself back together. Zeb had seen the human grow from a strategist to a leader to a commander, the man was born for leading a rebellion, and now he never would. The rest of his life about be about mitigating the damage, trying to make him comfortable.

Those stormtroopers were now not an option, they were a necessity. Zeb needed to break something, to break some _one_ , either that or howl at the sky and do it anyway. He left the tiny clinic; the sky was more green than grey, clouds had rolled in from somewhere, and Zeb marched out into the streets, looking for the squad he had seen.

It had been an hour, of course, and they were long gone, but Zeb knew himself well enough to know he needed and fight and a fight _now_ , and embarrassing Imps was the most productive way to do it. He stalked the crowds, a low feral growl in his throat and scaring beings out of his way. The wide berth made him move through the stalls and awnings and spaceports faster. And then, at last, he turned a corner and saw white armor. The grin he made was worse than feral, it was bestial, and he moved towards the bucket.

Just his luck, the trooper was swinging his blaster threateningly at a salesman, saying something through the speakers. That was all the provocation he needed, and Zeb slammed his hand onto the tiny human's shoulder and swung him around. "I gotta tell you," he said in a dangerous, light voice, "This is the first time in my life I was happy to see a trooper."

Then he clocked the bucket in the head, a perfect downward punch that sent the Impie clattering to the ground, instantly unconscious.

Well, that was no fun at all.

Zeb grabbed the back plate of the armor and stood, dragging the bucket-head behind him as he backtracked and exited to the main thoroughfare. It was a spectacle, a near-extinct Lasat dragging an Imperial Stormtrooper, and it took all of ten minutes before a squad was seen running towards him. Perfect. Troopers were jokes of course, but they made _perfect_ targets. There was fire, easy to dodge. There were calls for backup, and that made him smile. There was hand-to-hand combat, and Zeb didn't even need his bo-rifle, his martial skill far exceeded these bucket-heads.

It started to rain, as Kanan had predicted, a heavy torrential downpour that lowered visibility to almost nothing, and in those helmets the troopers had no hope of seeing Zeb as his purple-grey skin blended perfectly into the rain. The Lasat was in a perfect environment, and he wasn't even working up a sweat.

" _Zeb?_ "

He pulled out his communicator as he ducked under a blaster bolt and threw a perfect kick into the abdomen of a bucket. "Yeah?" he asked.

" _The appointment's over. Where are you?_ "

"Just lettin' off some steam is all."

"... _You're embarrassing Imperials again, aren't you?_ "

"So?"

" _So... how do you expect me to get back to the ship_?"

For a brief second Zeb froze, and it all hit him again. That brief lapse sent a punch that actually reached his jaw, and letting off steam was replaced with blind rage. He gave a great, feral roar, rage echoing over the thoroughfare, even through the drenching sound of the rain. " _You did this!_ " he bellowed. "You did _all of it!_ " He pulled out his bo-rifle, electric charge sparking in the rain, and he swung into a low arc, swiping feet from several Impies and thrusting into the chest of another, shocking the bucket-head into unconsciousness. Water dribbled off of him in miniature waterfalls, puddles splashing around his feet, his looming shadow invisible in the rain. White bodies were everywhere, there weren't enough in the whole galaxy to bring him satisfaction, but stars above he was going to try. He thrust and swung and jabbed and blocked and ducked and kicked and punched and growled and cursed and shocked and _fought_. He was the captain of the Honor Guard, he was a Warrior, and these Impies were little more than children and fools thinking they could best Garazeb Orellios!

Someone hit him with a stun baton, but he felt nothing other than a mild sting and swung savagely at the source of irritation, following up with a devastating kick that broke ribs to a second assailant and now he was in the zone, he was in battle and nothing could stop him. Blaster fire was deflected, bucket helmets went flying, and he poured all of his pain into his body.

And then a hand touched his shoulder, and Zeb swung blindly at the stimulus, a visceral punch to the stomach, and his mind finally caught up with his body as he saw Kanan stagger back, tripping over the legs of some stupid stormtrooper and fall like a sack of grain. The world snapped back into focus.

The rain was a downpour, everything was sopping wet, and two squads of troopers were at his feet in varying stages of consciousness. Water dribbled everywhere, puddles showed how uneven the ground was, and there was Kanan, just as soaked as Zeb, strings of hair sticking to his face, coughing and trying to get up.

Adrenaline was replaced with anxiety, and Zeb hopped over the bodies and crouched down by his friend. "What are you _doing_?" he demanded. "How did you even _get_ here?"

Kanan rubbed at his stomach, swaying even though he was on the ground, disoriented for several heart-stopping seconds before he finally turned his scarred face to Zeb. "I was trying to find a Lasat in the rain," he grunted. "Nose lead me right to you. So did all the screams." Zeb reached down and placed his massive hands on the human's shoulders, lifting him up and setting him on his feet with ease. Kanan swayed again, he was so _small_ – Zeb had never noticed how small the human was; the former Jedi always seemed to loom large. Now he was soaked through, pitiful looking with loose hair and bandaged eyes that would never see again.

"Zeb... what are you doing?" Kanan asked.

And the Lasat cringed at the tone. Even blinded the human had the ability to cut through all of Zeb's pain and get right to the heart of the problem. "... I was just lettin' off some steam," he admitted, shame-faced, as the driving rain drowned out his confession.

Kanan's face grimaced even under the bandage, looking away, water dripping out of his hair. "This is my fault," he said softly, almost unheard save for Zeb's sensitive ears. "I shouldn't have kicked you out of the appointment."

Zeb shook his head, realized belatedly that Kanan couldn't see it. "... Did I hurt you?" he asked, glancing at the human's abdomen, where he had sucker punched a blind man. _Karabast_ , how was he going to live with himself?

"... Just my pride," Kanan said, and Zeb could hear so many other pieces in those three words that he felt even _worse_.

"Let's get you to the ship."

"Hold it right there!"

The rain had dulled a lot of the sound, and his focus so completely on Kanan the Lasat hadn't realized that some of the stormtroopers had regained consciousness. Three had blasters leveled at him, and one had her helmet off. He adjusted his grip, fingers slick with rain, and moved in carefully. "You're under arrest!" she ordered.

Zeb growled, low in his throat. He didn't need the distraction just now, and he got to his feet slowly, working out a plan to get the helpless Kanan out of here.

"Sorry, sorry," said Jedi said, stepping carefully around the Lasat, one hand out to watch his steps. The trooper didn't move, but her eyes flicked to the blinded Kanan in confusion. "This was my fault. My friend here just learned about my accident, and he didn't handle his shock very well. You understand, don't you?"

No response.

Then, Kanan's voice changed just slightly. "You'll let my friend go," he said softly, hand moving slightly.

"... I'll let your friend go..."

"He can't be blamed for being angry."

"... he can't be blamed for being angry..."

Zeb watched Kanan flash a grin. "Thank you," he said. "Come on, Zeb, help me back to the ship."

The human reached up and put a hand on Zeb's elbow. The Lasat started moving, but not before turning and seeing the stormtrooper back off and lower the blaster, grabbing the helmet and dumping water out of it, putting it on and seeing to the squads. Had Kanan just performed a mind-trick?

"Hera's going to kill you, you know."

Zeb rolled his eyes. "Honestly, Kanan, I can't really find it in me to care."

"You will when she makes you clean the 'fresher top to bottom with a toothbrush."

"I'm too old for punishment like that."

And Kanan _smiled_ , an honest, _poodoo_ -eating smile of a man who knew better and was going to enjoy the show. "Don't say I didn't warn you."

And then, later.

" _Garazeb Orellios!_ "

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Given that Ezra's anger is to be fully explored in season three, Zeb was the perfect second choice. He was literally made to be a bruiser with a short temper and bad attitude. The anger stage of grief isn't really "anger." At least for us it isn't, so much as being constantly irritated and with a short fuse to snapping. There's this giant hole in your life, it's all raw and new and unhealed. I remember when I finally went back to school, right after it happened, a student was being his usual pain in the ass self - even after the kids had been in formed what had happened, and instead of being mildly annoyed I bit his head off - or nearly did, before I realized that was the Anger talking and adjusted accordingly. Everything hurts, and anger is the reaction to pain.
> 
> This chapter, on reflection, isn't as good or as realistic as it could be. Zeb should be verbally angry as well as picking fights - he should be snapping at Sabine and Hera and the doctors - even at Kanan when he finally arrived. This chapter is weaker as a result but we're not quite ready to write fanfiction just yet, so we decided to leave it as is.
> 
> Next chapter: Bargaining.


	3. Bargaining

A hand on the shoulder.

It was wrong. So very wrong.

When Sabine had left the Academy with Ketsu, they had looked forward to freedom. The two of them against the galaxy, joining other bounty hunters, maybe even taking shots at the Empire after their time at the Academy. The Black Sun. They had been like sisters, hugging, laughing, supporting each other.

Then Ketsu had left Sabine for dead.

The trust was shattered.

Between her misplaced trust in Ketsu and the woefully broken trust in the Empire, Sabine thought her trust issues were thoroughly understandable.

After Ketsu had abandoned her, left her for dead, Kanan had found her. Saved her. Brought her to the _Ghost_. Brought her to a new family.

One that never abandoned anyone.

Yet after two sharp betrayals, one after another, Sabine was a bit more circumspect. She stayed with her art, which had never left her. Kept to her room. Stayed alone. It was the only defense she had. Hugs were a thing of the past. She _needed_ to keep herself separate, to have that one last barrier to keep her safe. She knew, intellectually, that she didn't need it anymore, that with this crew she was safer than possibly even with her family when she was younger.

But she still stayed alone, even as everyone burrowed deep into her heart. She just _had_ to.

So any kind of touch was foreign at this point. A rare instance of desperation or something like that.

But now...

A hand on the shoulder.

Ezra was hiding in his bunk again, Zeb had left the base to go trounce more stormtroopers and Hera was with Commander Sato and Captain Rex discussing strategies. So when Kanan had politely knocked on her door and asked to go for a walk... How could she say no? She had set aside her sketchpad and let him put his hand on her shoulder.

"Where to?" she had asked.

"Anywhere," he'd replied. "I need to feel space around me."

So she'd lowered the ramp and headed out, taking the route she usually jogged every morning. Chopper had spotted them from where he'd been chatting with AP-5 and immediately rolled over, offering a manipulator without comment or complaint.

Just as Sabine opened her mouth to explain, Kanan interrupted.

"Thanks, Chopper," he said, bending forward to pat the astromech on the rusted top. "You're a little short for me. Walking while bending will do more damage in the long run."

Chopper stared at Kanan for a beat before his manipulators came down to his struts, looking very much like Hera when her fists came to her hips, and started yelling about idiocy of organics, and Kanan, in particular, before taking a spot beside Kanan and rolling along with them. For when Kanan's organic parts further failed him and he needed extra support, the droid muttered.

Kanan chuckled. "Thanks, Chop."

Sabine kept walking, still not used to the weight on her shoulder, and knowing that this was the way things would be from now on. Kanan needing help with things that had been so effortless before.

She needed to _do_ something.

"Chopper does have a point," she said, turning by the command center and heading to the barracks.

"Oh does he?" Kanan was clearly smiling. Sabine didn't know how he could.

"When equipment is faulty on the ship we replace it."

"Of course."

"So why won't you look at cybernetics to replace your eyes?"

Chopper offered hearty agreement.

"I'm not healed enough to even make that kind of call, Sabine."

"But you can _think_ about it, right?"

Kanan sighed heavily. "Sabine..."

"You could get implants that might even be better than average human eyes, read thermal scans or trace particles or air currents, whatever you want!"

"No, Sabine."

She stopped guiding and turned around to yell at him properly for this.

"What do you mean _no_?"

The Jedi was reaching up to pinch the bridge of his nose before changing midway to rub his forehead instead. "I didn't want to talk about this yet," he sighed.

"Well _clearly_ you're thinking of it," she shot back. "So clue us in!"

Or did he not trust them with his decision? It sounded like even Hera didn't know yet.

"Kanan, you _are_ going to get cybernetics, right?"

"I don't think I will."

Chopper exploded with expletives and Sabine was right there with him.

"What do you _mean_ no implants? No cybernetics? Do you _want_ to be blind for the rest of your life? Are you- Are you holding onto some sort of hope that you'll get your vision back?"

Because even though no one had wanted her to, she _saw_. Ezra, on that horrible shuttle ride back, had seen Kanan's face. Hera often watched over Kanan while he slept and had seen Kanan's face. Everybody had tried to make sure that she and Zeb didn't see the damage. But she _had_. Sabine had needed to ask Hera a question and had opened the door as the medics had removed the bandages that Ezra had hastily put together.

Sabine woke in a cold sweat that night. And every night since. There was _no way_ his eyes could recover. She wasn't even sure he had any eyes left.

Two hands settled on her shoulders and she looked up, realizing that she was crying. Sabine didn't want to be crying. She wanted things to go back to how they were. She kept that barrier of being alone to prevent this sort of outburst.

Kanan pulled her into a hug. "It's okay, Sabine. Let it all out."

But she was being hugged. She was already balling her eyes out. She needed distance.

Harshly, quickly, Sabine pulled away, needing some sort of defense.

And, of _course_ , Kanan let her go. Only held out a hand that Chopper took in his manipulator. "You _need_ to consider these options," Sabine insisted, quickly trying to wipe her tears away. "You need to consider every possibility. If you can't see, then what? If you can get cybernetics, why not? If-"

"Chopper," Kanan interrupted her, tilting his head to the old C1 unit, though his line of sight was off. "What's the easiest way to get you out of a fight?"

"What?"

But Chopper was indignant, shouting how it was impossible to knock him out of the fight, that he was far more sturdily built than any organic, that he had _never_ failed them before-

"And how did the Seventh Sister take you out at the abandoned medical station?"

Sabine stiffened and Chopper got very rude and dismissive.

"Electromagnetic pulse," she whispered.

Kanan nodded. "Or electrical overload. At the very least, I need to be able to maneuver and move while blind. If, and it _is_ an if, I choose to get cybernetics, I need to be prepared to go blind again. In a fight. That decision needs to be put off as a result. And if I can already move while blind..."

"Why get cybernetcis at all," Sabine finished.

"Exactly."

That was... a good point. Sabine didn't _want_ to give Kanan that point. She just wanted him to listen to her. If he got cybernetic prosthetics, then things could go back to normal. That was what she wanted, things to go back to _normal_.

Still. He hadn't said no to cybernetics. Just that it was unlikely. Sabine still had time. Time to convince him. Time to get him to see things _her_ way. She needed to plan out better arguments. Springing this on him hadn't worked.

But... if he wasn't seeking cybernetics...

"Then why?" she asked. "Why aren't you talking to anyone about what the _Ghost_ needs? We need to start looking at modifications. Something tactile to know what button is what on the console, labeling the hatches so you know where you are-"

" _Sabine_ ," Kanan hissed. "You can't-"

"We need to do _something_ so you can have a full and robust life that you _can't_ now!"

There was a pained sound behind her, and Sabine whirled around to see Ezra there, wide-eyed before his face crumpled and he turned, running off.

"Ezra!" Kanan called out. "Ezra!"

Sabine's heart descended past her stomach, past her feet, down somewhere to the planet's core. Ezra already felt bad enough, he didn't need her making him feel worse.

Kanan let out a long and heavy sigh. "I'll talk to him later."

"I should go and-"

"Finish taking me for a walk," Kanan said firmly. "Finish what you started, no matter how uncomfortable. _Then_ talk to Ezra."

"But Kanan, I need to-"

"Sabine." Both hands were on her shoulders again. "You can't do this for me. You can't make me or Ezra hurry back to normal. Normal is gone. It won't and can't come back. Because normal is ever evolving. Normal changed when you came aboard, when Ezra came aboard, when I came out as a Jedi. Normal is what we define a routine as. But routines change. Evolve. We'll find our new normal."

"Then we need to get started _now_!" Sabine shouted back. "Before our new 'normal' routines settle in. We need to start setting up how things will be."

"Not right now," Kanan said firmly.

Chopper gave an irritated _whump_ , but Sabine felt cut to the heart and she quickly stepped out of his reach again.

"Kanan!" she growled back. "I was a top level student at the Academy. I'll know what to do in no time! I can start researching accommodations now! We can implement as soon as this afternoon! We can-"

" _Sabine_!" Kanan shouted. Actually shouted at her. He _never_ yelled at her. She knew the boundaries and never breached them – only ever pushed. Part of that was because she kept to her art, so she didn't get into trouble the way Zeb or Ezra might. But put explosives in front of her and her experiments had been known to paint wide swaths of land. Both Kanan and Hera were always a mix of exasperated and annoyed. But always, they kept their heads about them, even in the heat of battle, fighting for their lives, there was never directed anger at the team. Irritation, sure; stress, often; but never anger. Even when Hera had been injured, Sabine's blood boiling and determined to kill Fen Rau and _make him pay_ , even then, Kanan kept his cool and kept her in line, telling her out right that he trusted her.

And for Sabine, trust was everything. Now he was angry, now he wasn't listening to her, now he was not trying to help himself.

"What is your problem?" she demanded. "Why won't you let me help you? Why don't you trust me to look these things up? Why don't you let me help you? _Why don't you trust me_?"

"Because I'm _not ready_!" Kanan shouted, voice echoing over the structured coral, bouncing off the hills. Sabine startled, Chopper backed up and even Kanan seemed surprised by the volume of his voice.

"Stars," he cursed, reaching up to pinch the bridge of his nose and changing his mind partway, rubbing his forehead. "Sabine," he tried again, and he sounded so _tired_. "I'm not ready. I need to adjust at _my_ own pace. Not yours, not Zeb's, not Ezra's, but _my_ own pace."

"But we can _help_!"

"And you are. You're pushing me to think about things I don't want to, but you keep pushing even beyond that. Too far, too fast. I feel like I'm spinning and spinning and I don't know where to go because I'm surrounded by _too much_. Do I go for cybernetics? How much would that cost? Do we refit the _Ghost_? How much will _that_ cost? Can I use the Force instead? How? I know the basics from a lesson unrelated to blindness, but I'm out of practice and I don't have the depth of knowledge. Is there something else I'm not considering? How about my usefulness to the rebellion? It's going to take _time_ , no matter what method I use, so what good am I?"

"Kanan," Sabine scratched at her eyes, trying to rub away her tears.

"You're not me, Sabine. And I'm not you. I'm not a kid who bounces back from everything quickly because of a lack of life experience and resiliency. I'm a grown man who's survived being hunted for almost twenty years. I've been beaten down more times by just _existing_ than you have. You can't live my life for me. You can't make me adjusted. You can't do this for me. And I know that's frustrating and maddening, but you have to let me do this at _my_ pace."

That _hurt_. That really _hurt_. Kanan never referred to their age gap like that. Ezra was the only one he ever called "kid" so openly. She liked to think it was proof of how much he trusted her. How much she was an equal to the parents of the crew. But he was right, and that hurt even _more_. She couldn't do this for him. He had to get through this at his own pace and she couldn't rush it. And because he was right, he was proving his point. She really _was_ just a kid. She should have known better.

Kanan reached out a hand.

Sabine rubbed at her eyes again, swallowed the lump in her throat, and stepped forward, turning, so she could put his hand on her shoulder.

She had promised him a walk. And she would deliver. But just because Kanan needed to work through this at his own pace didn't mean she couldn't do what she could to help him along. At the very least, while he was still considering things, she could start looking up modifications and see what she could do to try and make things easier for him.

He could go at his own pace. But she would just have everything ready for him when he got there. From cybernetics to anything else he needed.

Immediately, the Sentinel helmet came to mind. Kanan was often fingering it, and it was obvious that he was worried about his lack of vision. Maybe she could do something with that ancient helmet. Modify it to something more comfortable. It was essentially a blank canvas anyway.

Ideas started to gather in her head, particularly of the design on Rex's helmet, and Sabine started to plan. Crafting may not be her forte, but she'd make something comfortable for Kanan. Until he could decide between cybernetics or modifications or whatever else he needed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is the weakest of the bunch by far. Bargaining is a hard phase to pin down, and the two of us haven't seemed to even touch it through our own current grieving process. Our mother by contrast is spending a lot of time in bargaining, replying That Night over and over wondering "If I had done this" or "If I had done that." Bargaining, in computer science terms, is a long series of if-then statements. If I do thing one thing then I keep the memory alive, If we can get this right then they will smile down on us. This plays a little different because Kanan isn't dead, but the loss of his sight - in a science fiction galaxy - presents a different series of if-then statements. Ergo, the conversation about cybernetics.
> 
> Sabine, rather than being a perfect choice, was the only choice left after the other stages of grief had been assigned. She suffers not only from being a less than perfect fit but also by being the least developed character in the series so far. Even Kallus has more development than her (Season 3, we have high hopes for what we saw in the trailer...). We can't touch on her backstory because the juiciest parts of it haven't been revealed yet, so relating to her is hard.
> 
> The result is this chapter is a solid Meh. It functions for what it is but it could have been so much more.
> 
> Next chapter: Depression with a hint of acceptance.


	4. Depression/Acceptance

A hand on the shoulder.

She kept a hand on his shoulder.

Hera watched Kanan sleep. Over the years, long before their crew had grown, they had performed this service – one over the other – repeatedly. When ops had gone bad, when contacts had been captured or killed, when something hit one of them hard. Over time, Kanan learned that Hera didn't sleep when things hit her, worked and worried and gnawed at the pain until she worked her way through it. Kanan by contrast had nightmares, and many times Chopper signaled her comm in the dead of night and she would go across the way and wait for him to wake with a soft gasp. Always his blue-green eyes would rove about until they settled on her, and he would visibly relax in his bunk. Sometimes they talked, sometimes they didn't, and sometimes, when things were really, really, bad, they shared a bunk, taking comfort in waking in the presence of someone safe.

She watched him sleep now, saw the telltale stiffness in his frame, the tension in his muscles, and knew he was dreaming of the red blades and the dark temple and everything that had happened. And when he woke he would not be able to find her, and panic would rise in his chest until she reached out and touched his sweating shoulder. It was a small detail, so small, and yet it had changed everything about how these rituals played out, and Hera was at a loss as to what to feel.

There it was, the soft gasp, and Kanan held himself still, listening, hand reaching up to his face and waving it, still not awake enough to understand his nightmare existed in more than just his mind. His breath quickened but Hera reached out and touched his shoulder.

This time, a hand reached back, touching the wrist, encircling it, and he turned into the touch. Kanan was honest in a raw, often painful way, but even in the depths of his pain he held himself together for the crew; for Zeb and Sabine and most especially for Ezra. He would not let himself break in front of them.

But Hera was a different story. They had both fallen to pieces in front of each other, seen each other at their worst and still they were together. There was nothing left to hide, and neither of them bothered.

And here, in the quiet of his bunk, away from the others, shielded from the world, he looked in her direction, pain so deep behind those ruined eyes Hera didn't have words to offer him, and he broke.

Kanan was always a quiet person. Despite the rowdy cowboy demeanor he affected, when push came to shove he made little noise. His nightmares were silent and still, intimacy soft and whispered, and his sobs were without sound. All he had were shaking shoulders and shuddering breaths, and all Hera could do was climb into the bunk and hold him, keep him together as his losses hit him full force. He could not even bury his face into her neck, the wound was too raw, too sensitive – he had to hold his head away even as he clung to her with everything else. She said things, stupid empty reassurances, whispered support, murmurs of, "It's okay." None of it meant anything, she knew, because nothing would be the same.

She had known this was going to happen. That day Kanan had them to rendezvous with Ahsoka away from the fleet, talking about going to Lothal to seek guidance. "We're putting the rebellion in danger," he had said. "We're using the Force more often, and we're becoming easy to detect. Ezra is so powerful, he's a beacon to the Inquisitors, and I can't – _we_ can't – fight them on our own. We need knowledge, some way to get the upper hand, so we're not a danger to you. We need to take the fight to them somehow." That was the day she realized what the stakes were for Kanan. Even after eight years of traveling and adventuring, even after seeing his fears and his nightmares and his desperate denials of who and what he was, only that day did she realize just how much survival was a win-state for the Jedi, and how close he was to losing it. That was when she really began to feel fear, because for the first time since knowing him Kanan was suggesting going on the offensive, and they both had the raw experience of knowing what that meant against the Empire.

For eight years they had stuck together, helped each other. He had been there for every problem, every close call, every moment of anxiety, and now when _she_ could support _him,_ he left to protect her interests: the rebellion.

… He had always been considerate.

She knew it was bad when Ezra made the call of their approach instead of Kanan. She knew it was worse when she saw the perfectly coordinated descent, too controlled for an organic being. Kanan never let Chopper pilot if he could help it, and that was when dread had filled her stomach. Then she had _seen_ him, and she knew things would never be the same.

"I'm sorry..."

Hera cupped his cheek in her hand, guided his forehead to touch hers, tried to shush him.

"I'm sorry," he repeated. The shaking was almost done, the voice raw with emotion. She could not see those beautiful blue-green eyes, would never see them again. The lightsaber had forever ruined his expressive gaze, and Hera felt tears in her own eyes. Would he even be able to cry?

"Don't..." she started to say.

"I can't see you again," he moaned, voice tight and raw. "I promised... I promised..."

Heartache filled Hera's chest, and she let out a shuddering breath of her own. She reached down for his hands, finding one and gently tugged it up. She pressed it against her face, guiding his fingers, kissing his palm. "I see you," she said, and her voice was just as raw as his. " _I_ see _you_ , and _you_ can see _me_. Look at me." She found his other hand and pulled it up as well. " _Look_ at me."

It took a while for her words to sink in, for him to explore her with his hands under his own power, but he did. Her cheeks, her forehead, her ear cones, one hand moved down the entire length of her lekku. He traced her chin, gently touched her lips, and finally he traced his fingertips over her eyes and felt the dampness. Emotion swelled in him again. "I never wanted to make you cry..."

And she couldn't even find the words to help him, she lay next to him, as helpless as he, unable to make a pain like this go away. All they could do was weather the storm in each other's arms, feel the pain and work through it. She would not be sleeping for weeks as she tried to process this, and she knew most of those nights would be in his room, in his bunk, holding him through the nightmares.

"Ezra..." he said finally, after the worst had passed. "He's dreaming. We need to wake him up..."

"You stay here," Hera said, "I'll wake him."

"No, he needs help. I have to..." He was already sitting up, fumbling for a shirt, still unused to finding things by touch. Hera wordlessly grabbed the sweater and handed it to him, stood and waited for him. She could not stop him – in point of fact she _would_ not stop him – she would not take away what little agency he still had, and was determined to give him as much agency as possible in the days to come. Kanan stood slowly, weak and unsteady on his feet, one hand reaching for the wall. Hera exited the bunk first, and made herself move to Ezra and Zeb's door before she waited for Kanan to catch up. They were out of his bunk now, away from his nightmare, and he no longer allowed himself to be broken, and Hera would hold to that to the last. Kanan caught up quickly, they had lived on the _Ghost_ for years, he knew all the steps and the groves and the hatches of the freighter, and Hera let him open the door.

Zeb had watch and was in the cockpit, Ezra was by himself, a tetrahedron on his bunk by his pillow, and Kanan confidently stepped in and reached up, bumping his knuckles on the bunk as he misjudged the height before he adjusted. The faintest touch and Ezra jerked awake, grunting and jolting into a sitting position before he hit his head on the bulkhead. Muttering Zeb's curse words and rubbing his forehead, he rolled over to see Hera and Kanan watching him, and Hera watched his face cringe in a pain that wasn't physical.

"... I didn't mean to wake you..." he mumbled.

And none of Kanan's pain was audible as he reached out to touch his student, to put a hand on the young teen's shoulder. "... You didn't," he answered, and there was so much in those two words, so many layers that his inherent honesty conveyed that Ezra became even more pained. Hera couldn't help with this, she wasn't there, didn't see what they saw; all she knew was the aftermath. Moreover, she couldn't let herself interfere with this relationship – she trusted Kanan and she wouldn't reneg that, wouldn't assume he was helpless now that he was missing one of his five senses. She gave them their space, moved down to the engine room. The flux capacitor was due for a tune up, and it wasn't like she was going to sleep any time soon.

* * *

That morning she was in the cockpit, absolutely exhausted and morose, guiding the _Ghost_ and nudging the systems without anything resembling thought. She was on her own version of autopilot, mentally turned off because of emotional and physical exhaustion. All she could see was Kanan this morning, trying to shave, watching him run his hand along walls, seeing his wrist bump into the ladder he was looking for to go down to the cargo hold. In the light of day cycle she realized that navigating her ship would not be as easy as knowing it for years. She had never realized what navigating the ship would be like for a handicapped person. There were hatches to step over, ladders to find, doors to thumb open, holes to fall through. She shuddered at the thought of Kanan and the ladder to the nose-gun in the cockpit, stepping over open air by accident and falling down. Even familiarity with the ship wouldn't mitigate all of it, and as dearly as she loved this ship, _her_ ship, she wondered if she shouldn't trade it in for something more accommodating for Kanan's injury. Sabine was already going into deep dives in how to modify living for someone with Kanan's injury, lists of things to buy, ideas on how to keep Kanan's life full and robust. Ezra had left when she said that, and Hera had winced at Sabine's choice of words.

Kanan's life had always been full and robust, saying that it wasn't now was admitting that this was a problem. No, that wasn't right. They all knew it was a problem, but not everyone was ready to actually face it yet. Ezra barely looked at Kanan, Zeb was starting fight after fight, Sabine was fighting to make the case for implants and cybernetics and Hera... Hera wasn't sure what she was doing other than watching him sleep and holding him at night as he allowed himself to break. During the day she barely spoke, barely ate. All she could manage was maintaining a ship that might or might not be safe for her partner and wait for her mind to process the unthinkable.

Kanan...

She shook her head. Her eyes were burning from sleep deprivation and being emotionally strung out. She needed caf. Lots of caf. Why hadn't she had caf yet, anyway?

… Because Kanan always brought it to her. _Force_...

She got up and rubbed her temples. So many things she would have to get used to...

She walked down the hall, past the turret ladder and down the hall to where the galley was. Hera couldn't remember the last time she had to get caf herself, Kanan was always so considerate in that respect, always sensitive to her needs and rising to meet them. Even when it caused him pain... Hera still remembered Kanan's words when the rebellion had first formed, how uncomfortable he was with a military campaign. He stayed because of her, she knew, because it wasn't in him to abandon someone who needed help, even for self-preservation. And before he left... what he had said... He had managed to believe in the rebellion, even after so long, even after everything he had been through. He had supported her through everything.

It was time she did the same.

_She_ would make _him_ a cup of caf. Yes, that would be a good place to start. The rest could come later.

Hera entered the galley with... not a smile necessarily, but a sense of purpose, a means to make life even the smallest bit bearable, a way to cope through a time so trying that Hera didn't know how they were going to pull through.

That was when she saw Kanan. His tail of hair was off-centered, a piece of his sweater hung out over his belt, and his boots were mismatched. He stood at the counter, fingers running along the edges in wide sweeping gestures, looking for something. The cooktop was on, the induction red with heat, and on it was the caf pot. Kanan was silent, but there was a fierce frown on his face. His head turned towards Hera, not quite enough. "Sorry," he said. "It's taking longer than I thought to make the caf." There was no bitterness, or self-loathing, or even depression in his voice. It wasn't _light_ , like it was supposed to be, but there was a matter-of-factness to it that made Hera rush to put a hand to her mouth and stifle a sob.

"Love..." she bit out, but she couldn't finish the thought, moving to the other side of the galley and throwing her arms around him. Sadness overwhelmed her, and she thought she would break herself, right there for everyone to see, instead of the safety of their bunks. She squeezed, and Kanan understood like he always did. One arm left the counter and wrapped around her shoulders.

There was nothing right about this. How could he be so... so _normal_ in the face of all that had happened to him? How much more could be _taken_ from him before he finally just collapsed under the weight of it all? But it wasn't in Kanan to just give up, if it was he would have been dead during the Purge, and here he was, still alive and still trying to survive. "You win by surviving." He had said it over and over, sometimes as a solemn vow, sometimes as a hollow victory, sometimes as a mantra to himself, and Hera couldn't let herself demean it by crying here in the middle of the ship. She pressed him even closer before pulling away, trying to find something light to say, something normal.

"... What's taking so long?"

" _Someone_ , probably Sabine, rearranged everything so I can't _find_ anything," Kanan replied, his free arm sweeping the counter again. "Caf is always in this corner, right by the pot, but it's not there anymore, and I don't know where she put it." Hera saw he was right, and she pulled away to start looking through the storage cabinets. "I don't think," Kanan continued, "That she realizes I already _had_ an order. The only cabinet that would have needed to be labeled was this one." He reached up and fumbled his knuckles against one of the cabinets, knocking on it. Curiously, Hera opened it and saw that it held a mishmash of dried goods, things the crew rarely ate or used only in emergencies, a place that wouldn't be accessed often enough for Kanan's neat and orderly mind to remember what was what without his sight. She opened another and found the cookpots stacked and neat, but not in Kanan's order, and Hera quietly resolved that she was going to _kill Sabine_ for her well-intentioned efforts.

Eventually she found the caf and touched Kanan's arm, tracing down the length of it and putting the package in his hand. He smiled wanly and opened the package, sniffing it and reaching for a spoon he had already pulled out, fingers tracing the counter until he found it. Two steps sideways and he was at the cookpot, and the boiling water was a beacon for him. "There," he said, mixing as he said it. "I'll be up in ten minutes."

Hera hesitated, picturing Kanan with two cups of caf trying to go up to the cockpit. She didn't want to doubt him, but she didn't want to invite disaster either; and she wasn't sure if she should ask if he would be okay, or if that would just hurt his sense of independence further. Her indecision was its own giveaway though, because Kanan's bandaged face turned serious. "I need to do this," he said simply.

Hera couldn't deny him that, and she nodded absently before catching herself. "Don't be late," she said softly, all of her mixed up feelings bleeding through the words.

It took him twenty minutes, and there was a distinct stain on his sleeves, but he came to the cockpit with caf for her and for him. Hera thought it should count as a small victory, but she was too heartsick to feel it.

* * *

She had a couple of flux regulators on her lap that night, cable cutters and wires and splitters and tape spread out on the floor as she guarded Kanan's sleep. This time he woke not to a nightmare but to a memory. His hands shot towards his eyes and he rolled over – or tried to, twisted in blankets as he was, and scrambled backwards into the corner of his bunk. He was blind to outside stimulus, recoiled to Hera's touch, gulping air as he tried to differentiate between memory and reality. Hera stayed close but out of reaction radius, giving him time to settle into the newfound darkness before she tried to get his attention.

"You're on the _Ghost_ , love," she said softly. "You're safe."

He took an uneven gulp of air. "Where's my lightsaber?" he asked. "I can't find... I can't find my lightsaber..."

Hera counted to ten in her native language as the pain of what he was asking overtook her. He didn't even feel safe on the ship anymore. She took the two pieces and placed them on his lap. Kanan assembled them instinctively, gripping the metal cylinder in his fists and breathing, just... breathing. Hera sat next to him on the bunk, wrapping an arm around his shoulders, and waited for him to pull himself together. She listened to his breathing go from ragged to even, jerky to slow, and she could just make out his heartbeat through his back as it regulated. The memory passed, he slowly felt safe again, and he leaned into Hera, bumping his head to hers, nuzzling his nose into her cheek. "The last thing I saw... the last thing I'll ever see... were the red blades coming for me," he said, voice barely a whisper. "You should have been the last thing I saw."

"I know, love. I know."

"I didn't want it to go like this... I thought if we could just learn more about the Inquisitors, find a way to fight back because I'm such a terrible duelist. I just wanted knowledge... I didn't want... this... I'm sorry..."

"Shh, it's okay love."

One fist detached from the 'saber, wanting to touch her. His fingers slid over her chest by accident, he jerked back at the mistake and mumbled an apology before trying again. He found her shoulder and pulled her into a hug, and his body started to shake as he broke again. Hera guided him to lying down, joining him on the narrow bunk, letting his agony wash over her and meld with her own. She shook with him, burrowing her head in his neck, hands grasping at his back as she failed to stay strong for him. Hands traced her lekku roughly, hurting the sensitive membrane of her head tails, but she bore it because he needed the touch, needed to feel the reality he could no longer see. They held each other through the storm, the shuddered sobs and the pain and the tears Hera shed for them both.

"I can't let it go," he moaned. "I have to let it go and I _can't_..."

"What?" she asked. "What can't you let go?"

" _This..._ " he said, and he pulled up his hand and moved it in front of his face. "A Jedi lets go of emotion, releases her feelings to allow the Force inside. I should be able to let it go. I have to let it go..."

"Oh, Kanan," Hera said. "Even Jedi can't be expected to let something like this go so easily."

"I don't have enough training... I never did..."

His insecurities had taken him over now; it was not the first time but it was one of the worst. Kanan's mix of survivor's guilt and incomplete training had created a man who was never completely sure of his footing, and it was in times of failure that it hit him the most. Hera couldn't imagine a greater failure for Kanan: the loss of Ahsoka, his own sight, the pain he had caused Ezra, all of it feeding into his self-doubt and making him like this. Hera assured when she could, hugged when she couldn't, and kicked him when he went too far, as she had often done in the past. By the morning he had finally fallen back asleep, and Hera left him to his rest as she made her way to the cockpit. Chopper warbled at her to sleep herself, but her little astromech knew better than to try and make her. She sat in her seat, rubbed her burning eyes, her temples, the base of her lekku, trying to feel something other than despair.

She might have napped, she wasn't sure, only that the next thing she really was aware of was the muffled sound of a crash from Kanan's room, and she was on her feet in an instant, darting to his bunk and punching the door open. Kanan was in a ball on the floor, having tripped over the work she had brought and then forgotten in his room, the wires and cutters and splitters.

Hera cursed in her native tongue. "My fault," she said quickly, falling to her knees. "I left everything here and-"

"It's fine..."

"I'll clean it up, it won't happen again-"

"Hera-"

"I can't believe I did that, I'm so _sorry—_ "

"Hera!"

A hand reached out, bumping clumsily at her chest before finding her shoulder, and Hera looked up from the cables to see Kanan looking at her, the cloth gone, cauterized damage in its naked horror as he tried to smile through the ugliness. "I should have watched my step," he said softly, gently. "I know you work when you're like this. I wasn't thinking."

The sudden, irrational desire to hit him exploded in her mind and she left before she acted on the impulse. She shoved everything into her quarters, on her bunk, and stomped back to the cockpit. She had _just_ been worrying about him walking around the _Ghost_ , the last thing she needed was to add to the anxiety with her own thoughtlessness. She collapsed into her seat, taking a deep breath and wondering how any of this would ever be okay.

The caf was half an hour late, and she didn't even have the energy to be happy that there was no stain on his sleeve. She spent the rest of the day in the engine room, sandwiched between pipes and cables, tweaking and refining and wishing very badly that work could take her mind off of what she was really thinking about. Food was in the form of a protein bar grabbed from the galley, not even glancing at Zeb and Sabine as they were fighting over... something. A small, barely functioning part of her mind told her that she needed to break it up, whatever it was, that it was her job to keep the crew's spirits up, but she couldn't fathom doing such a job when she herself couldn't bring up her _own_ spirits. She didn't see Ezra at all, and that small voice in her head insisted that was a bad thing, but she couldn't find it in herself to do what she needed. She hid in the engine room, lethargic and trying to be productive.

She heard him come in because he bumped into the doorframe, boot banging into something and she startled – not dozing exactly, but jerking back to the reality of where she was. The thought of Kanan navigating the engine room was terrifying, and she started to shimmy out of the pipes she was caught between to get to him, to prevent him from hurting himself as he looked for her. A hand touched her knee, and Hera looked down to see him smile in victory before tracing his fingers up the length of her body, feet shifting slightly as he made his way closer, and finally he cupped her cheek.

"Working hard, I see," he said.

Hera didn't even have the energy to react to the woefully tasteless humor. She made a face and started to wiggle out from the pipes again. "I could have come out, you know," she said.

"No, you wouldn't have," Kanan replied, half a grin on his face. "When was the last time you slept?"

He had no right. No right to look after her when _he_ was the one who was suffering so much. She put a hand on his shoulder and finally found enough space to get out from the narrow confines she had been working in. Her boots thunked to the floor and she put a hand to her hip in the tiny hallway. "I'm fine," she said.

The half grin had left, Kanan was serious now, and _oh_ , how she wanted to see the blue-green eyes narrow. "Hera, you can't keep looking after me at night and pulling a full shift during the day. We both know you will work yourself to sickness while you try to process everything that's happened. Bad enough I'm... like _this_... We can't have you down, too."

"Kanan..."

"Come eat with me," he said over her. "I finally got Sabine to put everything back the way it's supposed to be. It's a little overcooked, but I have some soup made and it's getting cold. Come on."

It was such a _Kanan_ thing to say and do, even with everything like it was he was still trying to be himself. She smiled weakly, and helped him out of the engine room and back to the galley. The soup had sugar instead of salt, Kanan couldn't read the label anymore, and they both made faces when they realized the mistake. He had gotten better at eating, feeling for spoons and bowls and nothing spilled as he moved through the meal. Hera watched in mute fascination, seeing all the changes that came to even small things. She felt sick to her stomach, and she ate her soup without complaint.

That night she watched him sleep again, datapad in hand this time as she looked over some of the modifications Sabine had suggested and the maintenance lists and the growing supply list. They would have to dock somewhere soon and make their purchases, and Hera wasn't sure she should ask the Rebellion to reimburse them. Senator Organa would pay for it without question, his support of the Rebellion was unshakable and his care for its members undeniable – and that made it hard to ask, because she didn't want to put him in danger by linking his finances (however cleverly diverted and shelled and untraceable) to the recuperation of a known _rebel Jedi_. Income had always been a problem, and Hera didn't quite trust Zeb yet to take an op and not come back a bloody mess, even with Sabine to corral him. Ezra was out of the question, the child hadn't even started putting himself back together yet, and Hera didn't want to guess how long that would take. She still couldn't understand how Kanan was functioning so well under the circumstances, and if she thought about it too hard she was certain she would burst into tears and never stop.

He shouldn't have left in the first place. He shouldn't have gone off to fight another Sith, shouldn't have risked his life and Ezra's and Ahsoka's to learn how to fight back. Kanan, of all people, was the hit-and-run kind of fighter; small hits, quick strikes, and then disappear before things got too hot, before the Empire realized a Jedi was still alive. He never went on the offensive; the whole trip had been such a huge break in character and she couldn't understand why.

No, that wasn't right. She understood _why_ , but she didn't understand why _alone_. They had been partners for _years_ , knew each other inside out, had been there for each other and bled for each other and protected each other and fought for each other. All of their major milestones had been together: their first recruit, their first successful op on Gorse, their first rescue, their first failure, their first loss. What had made Malachor so different? What had Master Yo-what’s-his-name said that made it so important to not have his family around? To not have _her_? How many times had she told Ezra that they would support him, how many times had she offered comfort to Kanan as he struggled to come to terms with being the last Jedi? Why... why did it have to hurt so much?

A hand reached out and touched her knee, and she looked over to see Kanan, his head tilted in her direction, brow furrowed. Not a nightmare, or a memory; this was new.

"What's wrong?" she asked, putting the 'pad down.

"Too loud..."

"What is? The power converters or the engines?"

"Your thoughts..."

Hera froze, green eyes wide, and in an instant her mind was completely blank with shock. How... how... Didn't he say he couldn't read thoughts, hadn't had enough training to pick out things other than strong emotions? What else could he hear? How was she thinking too loud? What did thinking loud even sound like? How-

Kanan squeezed her knee. "Too many," he said. "Distract me. Tell me a story, ask me a question, something."

Hera blinked, 'pad forgotten. "Could you always do this?" she asked.

Kanan shook his head, the harsh scars even uglier in the dim light of night cycle. "Strong emotions only," he said. "Stronger Jedi could, those with more training. It's a breach of etiquette, though, we always respected privacy."

"Then how...?"

"I don't know," he confessed. He reached up to pinch the bridge of his nose, but the burns were too new, and he changed at the last minute to rub his forehead. "Something inside me is changing."

Hera blinked again, slowly, tired and strung out and confused. She leaned forward, trying to process what he was saying. "Changing how?"

"... I don't know," he repeated, a note of frustration in his voice. Hera turned to see that the door was closed, that they had privacy in case Kanan needed to break again. "You turned your head just now," Kanan said. "You were checking the door. You want privacy."

Hera had no idea how to reply, couldn't figure out how to understand how he had just done that.

"It's not just my ears," he said, thought in his head and trying to work out what he was saying as he was saying it. "I could hear the shift, the cloth, but there was... _more_ , somehow. I feel like I used to when I was a child, when Master Yoda had all of the younglings together with the training helmets on. We had these visors that covered our eyes, and little stun droids programmed to attack at random. We had to block the shots with the training 'sabers, and we couldn't see a thing. You had to rely on the Force to guide your hand, feed your instinct, tell you where to 'look.' When you reached the right proficiency you moved on to the next level. I feel like I have that helmet on, and all I have is the Force, and I just... I just..."

Hera almost dared to hope. "Do you see?" she asked, and she couldn't hide the emotion in her question.

Kanan shook his head. "No..." and the pain in his voice told her so much, and she was a fool for getting her hopes up, and she shuddered and felt like she was falling all over again. She buried her head in her hands and shook, unable to take any more. She broke, and she couldn't afford to while Kanan was still like this, was still injured and healing and helpless and just as broken as she. Hands touched her shoulders, and a warm embrace wrapped around her frame, and she pulled back long enough to slam her fist weakly in his chest.

"Don't get my hopes up!" she grunted, before burying her face into the crook of his neck and shaking, holding him as he held her. Everything she had been holding in poured out of her; just as Kanan had spilled over the other night, she flushed all her emotions out onto him. She told him about her fears of his walking over one of the access holes in the ship, or what ops would look like without him; she said how scared she was for Ezra and how he was taking this, mad at Zeb and Sabine, lost on what she was supposed to do, how she was supposed to feel. She wanted to support him but didn't know how and couldn't fathom how he was so blithely well-adjusted while everyone else was falling apart and _what right did he have to be taking this so well?_ _Why did he go off on his own?_ She was lost, so lost, and when it was done there was nothing left in her to say and finally, _finally_ , she fell asleep.

She awoke in the arms of her partner, scarred eyes unseeing, but still looking unerringly at her.

"I'm sorry..." she moaned, empty. "You didn't need me dumping on you yet."

Kanan shook his head, one hand tracing patterns on her shoulder, the other pinned under her side. "I'm still here," he replied. He offered a wry grin. "You've been worse."

She wasn't ready for levity yet, and he sobered almost immediately. "I can't answer all of that," he said instead, still tracing patterns. "I feel like I know less than everyone else here; everyone _wants_ to help me but no one's really _thinking_ about it; they're doing what they think they _should_ be. You're the only one who's thought about it, Hera, and you've been _amazing_." He leaned forward, intent on pressing his lips to hers, but he was a little off and got the side of her nose instead.

This was the new Kanan, she realized. Still the old Kanan, still thoughtful and abashedly noble and so wonderfully tender, only now he is just a little off. For a brief moment she saw the other side of the trauma: saw that this wasn't a life-shattering event, that Kanan wasn't irreparably damaged, that he was still _Kanan_. Just a little off. For a brief moment she thought she could accept this when the depression finally left her, and something in her shifted. _At last_ , she thought, _the worst is over_.

Kanan sighed, a soft, warm vibration in his throat and he sank deeper into the bunk. "So much better," he mumbled. "Less pressure..."

That morning he asked Hera if his sideburns were even, and she told him to hurry with the caf, she hadn't slept in days and one night wouldn't be enough to catch up. Kanan asked to be given a tour of the ship, to see how well he knew it without his sight, and Hera didn't even blink as she offered her shoulder. He took it, and it was as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

**End**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... We're not sure what to say for this chapter, it sort of speaks for itself. This ties with Denial for best chapter in this fic.
> 
> It's important to note once again that grief is a sliding scale, one doesn't go through the stages one at a time, but rather switches out sometimes one minute at a time. The "stages" per se, are more which stage one is spending the most time in. As of this posting, Mom is somewhere between anger and bargaining, for example; we're in anger and depression (so far we've skipped bargaining entirely), but all three of us have had moments of acceptance, moments when we know that we'll be okay, that everything will level out. It's not a real revelation, a moment where the light dawns and everything levels out; it's small moments where you can see passed all the radical life changes and transitions and new routines and say, "yeah, we'll get there." The two of us have had more moments of that than Mom, but even she has had them.
> 
> Hera, here, has one small moment. She's not past it all, but now she'll have more of those moments until they're the norm instead of the depression.
> 
> Anyway, we hope you enjoyed the fic. There's one more fic that has been beta'ed; after that our poor beta needs to catch up with the others. It was a fun summer though. School starts next week and we're back to teaching.
> 
> Thanks for all the reviews and the well wishes. They helped immensely


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